Then came June, all in black velvet, black cape and plumed hat, paler and more incandescent than ever, and carrying Count Bruga, as I had asked her to do. The wonder of her face and smile, her smileless eyes…

I took her to a russian tearoom. The russians sang as we felt. June wondered if they were really burning, as it seemed from their voices and intense playing. Probably they were not burning as June and I were.

Champagne and caviar with June. It is the only time one knows what champagne and what caviar is. They are June, Russian voices and June.

Ugly , unimaginative, dead people surround us. We are blind to them. I look at June, in black velvet. June rushing towards death. Henry cannot rush on with her because he fights for life. But June and I together do not hold back. I follow her. And it is an acute joy to go along, giving in to the dissolution of the imagination, to her knowledge of strange experiences, to our games with Count Bruga, who bows to the world with weeping willowness of his purple hair.

It is all over. In the street, June says regretfully, “I had wanted to hold you and caress you.” I put her in a taxi. She sits there about to leave me and I stand by in torment. ” I want to kiss you,” I say. “I want to kiss you,” says June, and she offers her mouth, which I kiss for a long time.